


I never promised you a rose garden

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23986900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Greg meets Sherlock and Sherlock takes over his life. aka every Sherstrade story ever :)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 27
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I posted a Sherstrade fic. It is slightly different in style from the usual ones :) Hope you enjoy it! Comments are love <3

Once again Sherlock is in pain and Greg is by his side.

*********************

The first time this happened was eight years ago when a tall irritable young man had turned up at Gregory Lestrade’s crime scene. The Detective Inspector was talking to the Medical Examiner about the time of death and the possible cause when he heard some commotion beyond the police tape.

The D.I turned around, already in a foul mood since domestic violence cases always made him furious. He saw a young man, dressed almost like a homeless person, arguing with Sally Donovan, yelling and waving his arms around with a newspaper in them.

‘What is it?’ Greg said irritably. ‘Can’t you see this is a crime scene? Move along.”

‘You intend for this to remain a crime scene forever or do you want to solve it?’ came the arrogant reply.

The accent was so unexpected that Greg did a double take. _What was this posh boy doing here and dressed like this?_ He waved Sally away because she was about to explode with rage and moved closer to the young man. “What do you mean?”

‘You think this is a domestic violence case but it’s not’.

The young man was looking at him and Greg saw that he was clearly a junkie. He had seen more drug addicts than he could count but there was something compelling about this one. He looked into those shifting blue green eyes and it was like some magnetic force was holding him in. They were arrogant and sharp. Like they could cut someone to strips in a glance. But there was also an element of vulnerability. The tough exterior was just an armour.

He had no idea what came over him but he gave his car keys to the young man and told him in a kinder tone to go sit in his car. ‘There is a bag of donuts in the backseat. Eat something. I will come and talk to you later.’

The young man looked utterly startled and looked back with such a confused expression that Greg had this very odd urge to hug him. He looked as though he was simply not used to anyone showing him any kindness.

_What had happen to the kid to make him this way?_ Greg was curious and fascinated. He turned and went back to the crime scene and promptly forgot about him.

It took him longer than he expected to wind up and by the time he was finally done two hours later it was already getting dark. While patting his pockets for his cars keys he suddenly remembered.

_Bloody hell_. He cursed. _Hope the kid hasn’t sold my car for drugs or tried to drive it away._

He walked briskly to where he had parked it and found the lad curled up in the back seat, fast asleep, powdered sugar from the donuts still stuck to his lips. He looked so vulnerable and even innocent that all Greg’s natural protective instincts reared their head.

The key had been dropped on the driver’s seat so he just opened the door, got in and drove straight home. Once they reached he woke up the young man and half carried, half dragged him up and then manoeuvred him on to the sofa.

_Thank goodness Laura was away on a theatre tour holiday (she did seem to have a lot of those nowadays. Well. He was so busy with work he couldn’t really blame her….)._

The young man opened his eyes droopily and looked at him and for a second it seemed as though he had glanced into his very soul and Greg shivered. Then the eyes closed and the spell was broken.

Greg heated some leftovers and ate them and watched the young man shiver and moan and eventually break a sweat and fall into deeper sleep again.

_Who was he? Why was he doing drugs? Why the hell do I feel like wanting to help him? There are junkies littered around London dime a dozen. Why him?_

He contemplated sleeping in the hall sitting up but he was simply too tired. So he went to his bedroom and fell into deep sleep almost right away. When he woke up the next morning, the sofa was empty. There was a note scrawled in a loopy handwriting.

‘ _Check the husband’s off-shore accounts. It was a paid hit.’_

Greg put the note in his pocket, looked at the sofa and felt a sense of emptiness.

_I don’t even know your name._

_******************************_

It was a full three months before he saw him again. A junkie was squatting outside a club in an alley, scruffily unshaven, trying to light up, hands trembling. The glow of the matchstick shone off his face and Greg stopped, a sliver of a memory drawing him in.

“Those things will kill you.” he said.

The young man looked up and seemed to be scanning his face. A recognition glimmered in his eyes and he drawled “Detective Inspector Lestrade. How can I help you?”

Annoyance and admiration flared up in Greg’s brain. _How did he do it? He is literally squatting in an alley and managing to talk to me like he is the Lord of the manor and I have come to him asking for funds for the village fair. Bastard!_

“You can help me by telling me your name for starters” Greg said. As an afterthought he added. “And how do you know mine?”

“Ah”, chuckled the young man. “I never did say thank you”.

He pulled out an ID card from his pocket and handed it to Greg. It was his own missing card. Before Greg could start spluttering with rage, the young man extended his hand and said “Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Do you know how many laws you have broken by stealing my ID??! And I hope to god you have not actually used it to get in anywhere. I have half a mind to haul you in for that as well as drug use and possession.”

“I expected better than that from you Lestrade. The others in Scotland Yard already have only half a mind. But you….you are different.” And Sherlock winked at him.

Again Greg had that helpless feeling of wanting to punch him and grin back at the same time. _Such confidence and arrogance….based on what?!_ He really wanted to know.

“Wait here” he ordered. “We are going in for an interrogation. I want to talk to you when I get back.”

Of course when he came back in half an hour the young man was nowhere to be found.

Greg felt ridiculously bereft. He had not really expected him to be waiting but that empty place by the wall seemed to be mocking him for his totally uncalled for disappointment. _Well, at least he had a name to go on this time…if it was a real one….He would look through the databases in office tomorrow._

But that night after dinner someone knocked at his door. He opened it to find Sherlock, dressed marginally better than earlier that evening.

“I am here.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here. I asked you to wait there.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t like being told what to do. So, do you want to get to know me better? Why am I like this…how can you help me….. Isn’t that what you have been thinking?” 

Greg took in a deep breath. Again he was overwhelmed with that helpless feeling of wanting to punch him and hug him at the same time. _Stay calm_ he told himself. He motioned for the young man to sit on the sofa.

“Talk.” he said.

“Well, I was abused as a child, I got into an unhealthy relationship with my professors in college so I dropped out. I have no relatives who are interested in helping me and selling my body makes me enough money to fund my drug habit.”

He looked at Greg as he said all this, almost like a rehearsed speech, watching Greg’s micro expressions change from distress, to anger to sorrow to thoughtfulness as he heard him out.

A silent beat passed.

“That is what you would like to hear isn’t it Lestrade? That will fulfil your God complex won’t it? Or should I say Knight- in- Shining- Armour complex? You want to charge in on your steed and save me from all the horrible things in my life. Make it better. Don’t you?”

Greg looked at him, trying to put some steel into his expression. This was not the first junkie to have tried to manipulate him but somehow he felt a punch to his gut. He had wanted so badly for this man to be something better. Something worth saving. He hoped he would be…..but it seems he was just like the others......

Sherlock was talking again. Drawling actually. In that posh accent of his. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to accept all that ?Than knowing that I had a happy childhood, my parents still love me, I am a certified genius who takes drugs out of choice because life is so BORING. And that your desire to help me is because you find me attractive. You are married to a woman. I know that. But bisexuality” he shrugged. “It can hit you when you least expect it.”

“Get out.” Greg said, truly blazing with anger now. He stood up and pointed to the door. “Get out and stay out. Throw your life away. Don’t cross paths with me again.”

Sherlock looked at him and somehow managed to sprawl out even more on the sofa.

“No Detective Inspector, you don’t really mean that I think. You won’t let me throw my life away. Not on your watch. You are angry with me because you think I don’t need your help. I do. You are in fact _my chosen one_. I am going to let you help me.”

Greg clenched his jaw and willed himself not to say anything.

“I _need_ you to help me.” whispered Sherlock.

And as Greg would ruminate years later, there was never any universe in which he would refuse Sherlock anything.

Almost anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later, Greg found himself sitting on the sofa in the disgusting dump that Sherlock lived in at Montague Street. He leaned forward and looked at Sherlock, asking him with his expression for some kind of an explanation for this life.

Inside his head he wondered who could explain why he himself was where he was right now.

Married. Check.

Troubled marriage. Check.

Senior ranking cop. Check.

Middle aged (almost). Check.

Dangerously attractive manipulative drug addict sitting across him. Check.

Life going fast into the fucked up lane. Check and mate.

***********************

“The hounds of hell chase me Lestrade.” Sherlock said. “I need to keep them away by using my mind for puzzles. All the time. If the flames are down, the wolves start gathering. They bay at me and I need the cocaine to muzzle them up. I am on the side of angels but I am not one. And even if I was, I would be Lucifer, the ruler of Hell.”

Greg listened to him, disturbed and swept away by this magnificent young man with eyes of fire and words of madness.

Sherlock was staring at him with those piercing blue eyes half-hooded. “The crime scenes sing to me you know? I can hear the shadows and see the breath of the killer. I can smell the evil thoughts and absorb the molecules of their actions. It’s a dark deafening orchestra that makes sense only when I conduct it. I take the chaos and toss it in the air and when it starts to fall around me like rain, I can weave it into a pattern”.

Gregory was feeling an undercurrent of mild terror at these ramblings.

_Is it poetry or insanity? Is he a genius or utterly crazy?_

_The world has struggled forever to figure out the thin line between the two, so who was he, a mere ordinary detective, to lay claim to the truth?_

“Why me?” he asked the younger man nevertheless. _Why did you choose me? An ordinary middle aged plod with nothing special about me at all._

In answer Sherlock picked up his violin and drew from the strings an eerie tune full of strange yearning that made Greg’s toes curl.

When he finished playing Sherlock looked at Greg as though that had been his explanation. When he saw Greg still looking baffled and now even more worried he told him. _“_ Have you never looked into someone’s eyes and felt as though you had found them after many lifetimes of searching? I think I have Roma Gypsy blood Lestrade. I feel as though I have been wandering for generations. Never quite finding a home. I think my soul has been lost and misunderstood from those long forgotten times. Searching for something it cannot name.”

Greg was looking at him with even greater confusion if possible.

Sherlock said. “Maybe when I looked into your eyes I found something I needed. A good heart. A believer. A tree I could shelter under. A rest stop for my caravan. I don’t know Lestrade….” He sighed. “Sometimes even I can’t tell if what I say is the truth or a memory of another life.”

Greg was staring at him, utterly lost. _What in the hell’s bells was this man talking about??_

_Maybe he wasn’t as much in touch with his soul or his past lives but he recognized that this man needed him…….Perhaps he also needed this man._

The world had been too much with him late and soon and the ambition to obtain justice and the thrill of the chase had been dulled by the daily routine and the disappointments and the inertia and callousness of the beast that was the system. And _ugh_ the paperwork. The _BLOODY_ paperwork.

_If having this madman by his side would shine a light in the darkness, who was to say what music they could make together?_

And so Gregory pulled out his dusty armour and decided to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Emperor of Deduction, Defender of Justice and the Most Gracious Benefactor of the Puzzle Solvers.

He never realized that his own heart may need protection from the Emperor himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romas originated in northern India and came to Europe a thousand years ago. They were called Gypsies because they were mistakenly thought to be from Egypt.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg had managed to get Sherlock officially approved, on a trial basis, to be consulted when certain crimes were either too complex or needed swifter resolution than they could manage on their own.

He remembered the first day that he had taken Sherlock along. Sally had immediately recognized him from that crime scene trespass some weeks ago and was about to push him away when Greg had stopped her and said “He’s with me.”

Sally’s eyes had narrowed and brow had wrinkled with latent fury but she had said “Sir’ in a clipped manner and allowed him in under the police tape.

The team had then fallen back and watched mesmerized as the conductor had raised his arms, and in the pin drop silence had tilted his head _just so_ and proceeded to organize the discordant strands of the crime scene into a semblance of a tune and eventually a crashing sonata.

Deductions poured forth from hidden drops of blood unseen to anyone else, threads on carpets, a smudge on the wall, some eloquent motes of dust on the mantelpiece (which needed to be tasted of course) and a sniff in the kitchen cupboard revealing the final crash of cymbals as the song ended.

Greg stood there waiting for the final echoes to fade away before he applauded Bravo and Sally managed an award- worthy sneer in response.

******************************

The weeks merged into months and Greg barely noticed his marriage vanish in a cloud of pixelated dust. He signed some papers, moved to a smaller flat, changed his commute route but it was as though these events were happening to someone else. He was moving through his own life in a bubble and reality was a mere blur.

He felt like the bits of broken glass of his life had been held together by Sherlock and shaken like a kaleidoscope and made into so many kinds of beautiful.

Sherlock was the sunshine and life had never been brighter.

He had managed to move Sherlock out of that hovel and found him a better flat at 221B Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson who was herself no less colourful and wild at heart than a gypsy. From the way she had greeted the cranky genius she might as well have recognized him as her long lost son or a kindred from anther life.

Greg shook his head at himself for even having such thoughts.

Before they knew it, Sherlock had a new address and Greg had a new place to relax in on those evenings when the work was done and the sun was setting and the light was falling just so and the way it reflected off certain cheekbones made one think of lost treasures full of gold doubloons, at the bottom of a deep blue sea.

Some of those evenings were made even more perfect by Sherlock playing the violin. When he heard him fiddling ( Sherlock always grimaced when Greg called it that but he knew that he remembered his own reference to the gypsy blood and was pleased that Greg had accepted it), Greg would lock his hands behind his head and lean back into the sofa and almost go into a trance.

He would stay floating in a halfway state, hovering at the edge of consciousness, the music making him forget everything. He could see Sherlock dance under the stars, bright red scarf tied around his curly hair, gold chains resting on his chest, whirling around a fire built in the midst of many caravans, horses neighing in the distance. Sometime he could even smell the dust and the fresh rain.

‘Petrichor’-- his brain supplied helpfully.

Sometimes he would think he was also there, dozing besides the campfire and dreaming of a future life in a big city with a flat and a violin playing detective.

Sometimes he wondered what was real and what was the dream.

When he had read the Zen masters earlier this quote had not made much sense, but now this storm-cloud made human had barrelled into his life and suddenly he knew how this felt. “Now I do not know whether I _was_ then a man dreaming I _was_ a butterfly, or whether _I am_ now a _butterfly_ , _dreaming I am_ a man.

Surely the moment that the newly minted Consulting Detective had suddenly turned to him in the narrow alley behind Scotland Yard and without any warning had held his face and kissed him……was a dream? Surely the gleam in his eyes when he had finally let go (not true—Greg had kissed him back equally fiercely and then both had let each other go)…..had that been real?

It was hard to say any more. Greg felt as though it was all one enormous insane complex dream and he never wanted to wake up from it.

Or if he did, then the only way he wanted to wake up was with the madman next to him in bed. That dream also blended into reality a few weeks later. He had gone to bed alone and woken up sometime before dawn with the restless presence under his blanket, radiating heat and a passion he could not resist. (Not true. He never _wanted_ to resist.)

When they had had their cups of tea some hours later in the early morning, silent and glancing at each other, one had smiled and the other had followed and it seems that their lips were made perfectly to fit over each other’s.

What was it they had together? A symphony, a sonata, an opera……….Greg had never learnt nor cared to learn about the finer points of classical music. He was happy with his working class tastes, the simple tunes he hummed on days when he was especially happy. Usually those days involved waking up next to a tousled head of curls, gently prising the long beautiful fingers off his waist, making sure the sheet still covered his sleeping partner and then making a cup of tea, grinning like a Cheshire Cat at the un-believable joy of it all.

He may not understand posh music but he knew that the songwriter and composer of the song of his life was now this madman sharing his bed and he could only dance to his tune.

“Greg” Sherlock would say in a rough drawl, as they lay in bed together later, fingers entwined.” You are thinking too loudly”.

And Greg would bent down to kiss him and his lover would then curl into him some more and he could feel his breath on his chest, rise and fall, in and out as they were both falling off the edges of consciousness into sleep and was there a lullaby ever more beautiful ?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As slow and inevitable as in a dance, they find themselves moving closer.

Despite Sherlock always mocking the ‘dull ordinary people and their boring predictable patterns’, the truth was that he and the D.I had fallen into their own fairly predictable pattern.

By some unspoken agreement they stayed over at 221B when they spent the night together. On some rare occasion Sherlock would turn up at Greg’s place and slip into bed. On the morning after Greg often wondered if he could ever have the courage to ask him to _just stay_. _Just move in._

_Don’t leave._

But those words always lost themselves before they could be heard.

This here was borrowed time. Or so it felt. _A carnival! An adventure! Quicksilver fast and trapeze artist dangerous._

Greg never remembered that he had no safety net for his heart.

.

.

Sherlock went to Greg’s office almost every day and sat there reading the cold case files. It was amazing how much he picked up that had been ignored or missed. To Greg’s unending delight and gratitude, Sherlock flipped open file after file, pointing out inaccuracies, inconsistencies, possible connections, patterns, missing pieces, potential new leads.

Initially Sally Donovan was royally pissed off when a mini avalanche of cold cases got opened but as the results started coming in and names got cleared or new names of the guilty were identified, she started to have grudging admiration for this ‘Freak’.

_It wasn’t really appropriate at all to have this ‘civilian’ getting access to sensitive papers._ She also didn’t like the fact that he answered only to her boss nor that her boss seemed almost _besotted_ by him, for want of a better word.

Although she herself had never had any such inclinations towards the D.I, she had recognized that the way to Lestrade’s heart was through the fight for justice and it looked like this young man had run rings around that heart and claimed it.

The two of them spent _hours_ in the office after the day’s work was done. Now that his marriage was over, she knew that often on weekends when she called for a case, Lestrade was to be found at Baker Street.

She worried for him. _How could her boss not see that he was doomed?? That he was like a twig tossed into a stormy sea? Or like a leaf in a tornado?_

  
She shuddered at the thought and steeled herself to be ready to pick up the pieces when all this came to its inevitable end.

.

.

In the meanwhile, Greg woke up every morning actually looking forward to going to work even more than he used to. Because now he knew that no matter how rotten his day went, the evening would always be immeasurably bright.

There would be cold cases and warm smiles.

It was a twirling kaleidoscope of crime, passion, frustration, bloody paperwork, chasing, calling, interrogations, deductions, more bloody paperwork, interspersed with banter, fondness, teamwork and most importantly--ensuring justice.

Sometimes Greg had a mild twinge of unease when Sherlock rubbed his hands together in glee at having ‘solved another puzzle.’ But then he rolled his eyes at himself. _Who did he think he was to question the supreme principle of morality here? Immanuel Kant? The cases were solved, whether for the sake of puzzles or justice, the end result was the same._

_._

_._

One day during a crime scene assessment, Sherlock suddenly deduced that the killer would have been hiding in the conservatory and rushed there only to be attacked by the killer himself. Luckily the coat provided some protection but he was slashed on his thigh and there was deep crimson blood all over that posh charcoal black suit.

The sounds of their scuffle brought the rest of the team rushing in and arresting the man. As he compressed the gash using Sherlock’s own scarf, while waiting for the paramedics, Greg said to him furiously, “You don’t take risks like that, Sherlock!”

“But he would have gotten away!”

“It doesn’t matter!!”

“What happened to justice above all?” drawled Sherlock, glaring at him, never one to back down even having lost a litre of blood.

“Not at the cost of your life.” Greg said, eyes blazing. “Pull a stunt like this once more and I will ban you from crime scenes.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away and when the paramedics arrived and took over, Greg spun around and left without waiting for him.

.

.

The next day both of them were simmering with anger. And with something else bubbling in the mix.

Greg was again shaken by the depth of his feelings when he saw the younger man endangering himself and Sherlock was fuming because….well because he lived on the edge of outrage and black moods of thunder on most days. So he was determined not to go to the Yard the next day but it was as though Greg had read his mind. He texted Sherlock at 8 am on Monday morning. _On his way to work_ Sherlock thought.

See you at 4 pm at the Yard? GL

Sherlock smiled. _He could accept this as an apology._

He turned up at the Yard at 4pm and started reading up the cold cases as usual. Greg joined him when his work was done. Not until after dinner did Greg mention fleetingly “Hope the wound is healing well”.

“Hmm.” said Sherlock in reply and looked into Greg’s eyes with a twinkle in his own.

And that was that.

.

.

A few days later they had finished dinner and Sherlock was playing a tune he had composed when he had a slow realization. He enjoyed playing for Greg. He liked to see him relax against the sofa, eyes closed, the worries of the day melting away, a small smile on his lips.

_It makes me happy to see him happy_ he thought _. I wonder what that means._

Greg opened his eyes just then and gave a slow smile. “You are thinking too loudly Sunshine! What happened?”

_You._ Sherlock wanted to say. _You happened_. _And now I want to crawl into your lap and kiss that smile._

He paused for a beat. He blinked.

What he said was: “It’s late and you are tired. Let’s go to bed.”

And so Greg spent yet another night at 221B Baker Street.

_It may have been a one year anniversary of the first time they shared a bed but how could you keep track when the connection itself felt like it was many lifetimes old? When every day felt like a celebration? When every moment together a festival in itself?_

As he waited for Sherlock to join him, Greg lay down on the bed, wondering how he had ended up here in life. He thought that if life offered nothing more than this—his work and Sherlock’s company, he could live happily ever after.

When he opened his eyes and saw Sherlock bending over and looking at him he could have sworn he glimpsed something in the younger man’s eyes which made his heart skip a beat.

It had been like looking into the abyss. A vortex. The heart of a flame. It was dark and so fucking dangerous that any rational person with any sense of self- preservation would have gathered everything and run for their life

What Greg did was to smile and lean up into the magical lips of his beloved and yet another night slipped into honeyed arms as the earth turned and the moon moved across the darkened sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates and short chapter but the muse is tricky to please in these pandemic days with irregular schedules and somehow more work despite less travel! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

It was more than two months later that Sherlock was sitting in the D.I’s office, waiting for him to come back from his meeting with the Chief Super. He was flipping through a file, impatiently. He heard Greg’s voice in the passage and looked up, already smiling in anticipation, but just then he got called away by someone else and Sherlock was left watching him through the half open door.

Greg was listening patiently to some officer who clearly had a hot mess on her hands. Sherlock saw him hold both his hands out, palms down, clearly telling her to _slow down, breathe_ , _it’s going to be fine. Tell me._ He could see the officer visibly relax and explain whatever it was she needed him to know. Greg nodded, paying full attention to what she was saying. Then he turned to Sally who was right next to him, as always. He discussed something quickly, gave some instructions. The officer seemed to be near tears. He saw Greg gently touch her on the side of her upper arm and he seemed to be telling her that she did the right thing and he would handle it from here. He must have told her to go get herself a cup of coffee.

Sherlock watched this small scene unfold with a strange warmth in his belly. This was a man who was in charge of his team. He would never let them down. He was the boss but also approachable. He always had their back.

_I know he has mine._

They trusted him. He was friendly but he commanded respect. Even the crabby Sally Donovan who seemed to have no time of the day for anyone was always aware that he was the boss and no matter how snarky she got he knew she respected Greg and who knows, may even take a bullet for him.

_Perhaps so would I_.

And as that thought passed his mind, he found himself rather shocked. _Where had that come from?!_

Yes, his brain confirmed. He probably _would_ take a bullet for this man. This man had turned his life around. For no reason that he could understand. He had found him a home, he was giving him something to keep his brain busy, while also serving the course of justice. He was intelligent, thoughtful, funny and even laidback despite his high pressure job.

He knew that Greg cared for him. Perhaps even loved him.

But the rush of realizing that he probably loved him back too was as terrifying as seeing the actual hounds of hell rushing towards him, fangs bared and growling with hunger.

_It was bad enough that even when he is across the room I can smell him. Molecules of coffee, tobacco, aftershave, car smoke, London._ _And his slow warm caramel smile lights up the room and makes it golden._

_Why do I feel something bubbling up inside me when he does catch my eye and smiles?_

_What if this is what falling in love feels like?_

NO.

No! No…. no… no!

He could not be tied down. He could not be in a committed relationship.

That is why he had left his family and even avoided his older brother and made his life miserable whenever he could.

He could not allow his heart to wander off like this and be owned by someone else.

This needed to stop.

This needed to stop NOW.

.

.

When you fall in love with a gypsy heart you learn the hard way that you can love it with everything you have but it will still answer the call of the wild and the whispers from the moon. There is a very primal fear of being tied down that will make the heart hunt in the darkness and blaze through your life leaving you singed and smoking , watching your house burn down.

A gypsy heart will protect itself by leaving before it is left.

Greg was at the heart of the whirlpool but still watching the shores, something in his copper’s sixth sense warning him, but he was still taken by surprise when Sherlock turned up at the crime scene the next day with a stranger in tow.

“He’s with me” the genius said, tragically echoing Greg’s own words to Sally, a life time ago.

_Had it only been two years?_ Greg could scarce remember his life before that.

Which was logical since he wasn’t really living before that. He was just waiting. Moving along relentlessly into the path of this gypsy king who was now fiddling away on the roof of his Mind Palace as Greg’s world was burning.

Those kisses shared on sleepy mornings had turned to ashes in his mouth and the memories of passionate love on crumpled sheets were like burnt embers.

There weren’t even any breakup tears to cry because there wasn’t even a goodbye.

Greg sat and stared at his empty house for many days and weeks and wondered what he had done wrong.

But Greg didn’t understand the fear that lurked in the dark caverns of the Mind Palace. The beast that paced there, tongue lolling, wild red eyes trying to see its way out. Trapped. Fearful. Wanting to protect its freedom. The beast was going to try to be free for as long as it could.

.

.

Later that first evening as Sherlock sat at Angelo’s and saw a faint hopeful look on John’s face as the candles were lit, something made him tell John. “You should know…I consider myself married to my work.”

The wild creature in his heart was still running through the dark forests, untamed, leaving its mate behind. He had no idea where he was running to. Why he was running from safety and warmth and love but ‘Alone protects us’ the wild heart kept repeating like a mantra.

‘Alone protects me’.

.

.

Mycroft had been watching this entire spectacle from a safe distance.

Ever since Sherlock had dropped out of college and found his way to London the descent into drugs had been so utterly predictable that Mycroft had almost scoffed at the ordinariness of it all. 

But he had remembered the brilliant young man who had been his constant companion while growing up and he remembered the dark passionate outpourings that used to worry him with their intensity. It felt as though Sherlock was always at the edge of some event horizon, barely escaping the pull of some black hole inside his mind.

They had always been so very different. The way Sherlock seemed to learn some things almost as if born to do it while Mycroft, for all his genius did work hard to achieve. The simplest examples being the piano which Mycroft excelled at but the violin which Sherlock played like a maestro from almost the first time it was placed in his hands. The way Sherlock could be fiercely loyal but in a way that was almost feral for want of a better word. The way Sherlock understood Mycroft’s explanation of patterns and took to it like instinct. The way Sherlock followed rules when it suited him but there was always that restless ripple underneath the surface that spoke of anarchist longings.

Every single time that Mycroft sat in doss houses and by hospital beds, holding the hand of his younger sibling, he wondered if it would be the last time.

So when he saw Sherlock move from collapsing into the death star to somehow falling into orbit around a certain Detective Inspector he had allowed himself to be cautiously optimistic.

Perhaps, just perhaps Sherlock could escape the darkness through the love of a good man. He had wondered whether to warn Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade that he was not likely to survive this relationship but he had been too far gone to be pulled out anyway.

“Oh well.” Mycroft thought resignedly as he watched the CCTV footage of Sherlock sitting in a restaurant with the new man that evening. “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

Gregory Lestrade sat at his desk, absently eating a donut and staring into nothingness. He was at heart a true gentleman and also a gentle man. The only way he had survived his job at the Yard was by being masterful at compartmentalization. Work was work and personal was studiously separated. Ever since Sherlock had walked into his life those boundaries had blurred and swirled and merged and he had simply not had the will nor the strength to protest. Now he was looking at this mess of his life, his broken heart, his mind that needed to stop screaming WHY???But WHY?? He wondered if this was a test of some kind. Or if he needed to pursue Sherlock and fight for him. Or if he needed to let it go.

For a brief second he wondered what Mycroft would say. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head at himself. He must be really too far gone if he was even imagining that the Most Dangerous Man in Britain would waste a second of his time on this. He would probably flick an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeves and give him a pitying look.

He would never find answers. He needed to find a solution.

So he took a deep breath, enjoyed that last bite of the sugary donut and took a decision.

It was a miracle that it had happened but now he needed to let this go.

Work was work.

As long as Sherlock was safe, he would find a way to live without him. It would not be easy but it was not impossible. He would make it possible.

Meanwhile there was a murder mystery to solve.

So he got a status update from Sally and then pulled out the key to 221B Baker Street and made his way to the place that was now no longer his to drop into for any personal reasons. He was going there for work.

He had been there for half an hour when he heard Sherlock rushing up the stairs, with the new man following him. He had no idea how Sherlock would react to seeing him there so he sat comfortably but in an alert stance.

He saw Sherlock’s face freeze into a mask as soon as he saw him and then saw him burst into a rage when he realized that other police officers were going through his possessions.

Sherlock stormed over to him “What are you doing??!”

“Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid.” Greg told him calmly.

“You can’t just break into my flat.” Sherlock said and Greg had to block a sharp pain he felt at hearing those words.

He managed to still speak calmly. “And you can’t withhold evidence. Also I didn’t _break_ into your flat.” _I have always had a key remember?_

Sherlock looked at him, trembling with rage, and maybe something else. “Well, what do you call this then?”

Greg looked round at his officers before looking back to Sherlock innocently, “It’s a drugs bust.”

The new man laughed. _What was his name? Oh yes, John. Dr. Watson._

Dr Watson said “Seriously?! _This_ guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?! I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

Sherlock almost growled at John. “John, you probably want to shut up _now_.”

Greg turned around and spoke to the officers. “Keep looking, guys.”

Then he turned to Sherlock. “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down”.

Sherlock spoke angrily. “This is childish”.

  
Greg laughed. “Well, I’m _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I’m letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?”  _You led our relationship Sunshine but you know that it has always been by my rules at work._

_  
_ Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at him. “Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

  
Greg looked at him in the eyes and said softly “It stops being pretend if they find anything”.

  
Sherlock almost yelled at him “I am clean!”

Sure. Greg said. “But is your flat? All of it?” _It may be over between us but you think I will ever forget the way we met?_

_  
_ Sherlock still protested. “I don’t even smoke.”

Sherlock felt the need to unbutton the cuff of his left shirt and pull it up to show a nicotine patch on his lower arm.

Greg felt a sharp pain in his chest again as he saw it. So many many reminders of their life together. Despite all his promises to himself, he wondered again what could possibly have gone wrong as he pulled up the right sleeves of his own jacket and shirt to show a similar patch on his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away and they both pulled their sleeves back down again.

Greg shrugged. “So let’s work together. _Two of us against the world. Remember?_ We’ve found Rachel.”

Sometime later John suddenly spoke up. “It’s Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

Sally Donovan was standing next to Greg. Ever since her boss had taken them to the flat and asked them to start searching all her alarm bells were ringing. Then the way Sherlock came in with this strange new man and the tone in which he and Lestrade were talking to each other…it was all very odd. Something was totally off. Something big had gone wrong and of course she blamed the Freak. So she hissed in anger as she spoke. _“_ I told you, he does that. He bloody left again.” She looked at Greg significantly and said _“_ We’re wasting our time! Does any of it matter? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll _always_ let you down, and you’re wasting your time. _All_ our time”.

Greg stared at her for a long moment, aware that today her aggressions held a different layer. Something more protective of him than just hatred for Sherlock. As she held her gaze he sighed. _“_ Okay, everybody. Done here.”

He picked up his coat and spoke almost to himself _. “_ Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”

John shrugged and said “You know him better than I do”.

Greg looked at him oddly and said slowly “I’ve known him for two years and no, I don’t.

John asked him “So why do you put up with him?”

Greg sighed. _What answer could he possibly give anyone to that? Vagaries of my heart? Love is blind? He wove his magic around me?_ “Because I’m desperate, that’s why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky he may even be a good one.” _And I will always believe in him. With my broken heart and baffled mind. I will still always believe in him._

_. _

_. _

He spent the next hour almost frantic with worry and out of his mind as they chased Sherlock across the city and finally found him in that building, sitting in front of the serial killer who had been shot dead.

Greg may not be a genius but he figured out that it had something to do with the new man, John Watson. When he tried to ask Sherlock, the man turned to him in irritation. _“_ Oh, what _now_? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!”

Greg looked at him thoughtfully for a moment _. “_ Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

He smiles sadly as he watched Sherlock go _. I can wait till tomorrow. Your new friend just killed a man to save your life. I guess things are going to be different now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The data is taking time to recover but I decided to try and recall my notes for this chapter and carry on anyway ! Hope you like it :)
> 
> Some of the ideas for this chapter and the next are from an earlier story I wrote for this pair. 'Two of us against the world.' Some of the dialogues are from A Study in Pink.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to solve the problem in his usual dramatic way.

A week had passed.

Sherlock stood staring outside the window for half an hour after John had gone out on a date.

Seeing Greg in the flat that day had shaken him. He could not allow this. And worst of all, Greg had not even asked him any questions about why he was behaving the way he was. He had not called and he had not texted. He seemed to have just accepted whatever Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted either except for the fact that his reptile brain had lit up and flashed *danger* and there was no way he could make any commitments and be tangled in emotional relationships. That was not his way.

It had been fun while it lasted but now it was over. He needed it to be over. The only constant in his life was The Work. ( and Mycroft –whether he liked that or not).

_How did ordinary people deal with such emotions on a daily basis? No wonder there were so many homicides_.

He needed to find a way to move on because he wasn’t sure how many more times he could bear to be with Greg and pretend that there was no pain hidden in his eyes. He needed to forget and while time heals all wounds and all that, he had no patience for this stuff. One part of his brain kept yelling at him to move on. He had done the right thing. There was no place in a gypsy life for being tied down like this. He needed to be quick and nimble and ready to move. He had enemies. He had purpose. He had darkness in his soul. He was solitary and strong and that he how he would remain.

Another voice was yelling at him that he was making a mistake. A big mistake. One that he would regret forever.

He was annoyed with that voice. He needed to silence it and he needed to forget Gregory Lestrade, D.I Scotland Yard.

So Sherlock stood there in the deepening night with dark thoughts swirling like black holes in his Mind Palace and finally he reached the only logical conclusion.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, was the solution._

So he locked up certain rooms in his Mind Palace and to keep them locked, almost two years to the day that he had been found in the alley outside the club he pulled out the loose tile in the bathroom, tied a rubber tourniquet and injected himself in order to silence all the yelling in his brain.

.

.

Before he lost consciousness, he heard Mycroft coming in and talking to him.

“Mycie?”

Mycroft had been watching Sherlock and in fact as soon as he saw him take the drugs he was already on his way. _Danger night!!_

Now he felt a cold pit in his stomach. Sherlock had not called him by that name since the incident with Redbeard.

“Please Mycie, take me away.” his little brother pleaded. “There is too much pain. Too much noise...…. Mycie I can’t do this”.

Mycroft urged the driver to go faster and he sat there, his heart beating furiously, till they finally stopped outside his house and he took Sherlock inside, wondering what in hell had happened to make him do this and cursing himself for not having seen this coming.

.

.

Two days later, Mycroft sat in his own bedroom, looking at Sherlock who was curled up on his bed. He blamed _himself_ for having missed the signs that there was more to the younger man’s feelings for the D.I. He knew Sherlock had panicked and tried to escape the relationship, in much the same way as a wild animal in a trap gnaws its own leg off.

He sighed and wondered what he could do to fix this new problem.

When he spoke to Sherlock later that day he realized that Sherlock was even worse off than he had anticipated. He had managed to wipe out or lock up all memories of Greg to the extent that he looked genuinely puzzled when Mycroft asked him if he wanted to talk to Greg.

“Greg?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “Who is that? And why on earth would I want to talk to him??”

.

.

Mycroft was stunned at these developments and after Sherlock went back to Baker Street, he sat for many hours alone in his library, whisky glass in hand.

Sherlock had , as usual, preferred to torch everything down rather than find a more delicate solution. Despite him reminding his little brother about how powerful emotions can be, Sherlock had never learnt to really control them. He still feared them, was overwhelmed by them, and then just as Mycroft was beginning to hope that The D.I would bring stability in his whirlwind brother’s life, this had happened.

He sighed as he remembered what a hatchet job Sherlock had done of it. He should have at least allowed Mycroft to help with editing the Mind Palace. As it was Sherlock still found himself being triggered by sounds and smells and confused and annoyed when that happened.

Someone smoking a cigarette, a deep laugh, a rough voice, even the smell of a certain takeaway or the strains of some music. Sometimes even the time of the day was dangerous. Sherlock got restless in the evenings. He started to hate eating dinner because when he looked up from his plate he couldn’t see the person he wanted sitting beside him.

But he had no idea what or who he was missing and why.

Mycroft was not sure if he could undo this so he would just have to work harder to build the barriers and eliminate the associations. Mycroft knew that the method was not completely fool-proof and from what he had heard, ordinary people in love tend to not be very logical. He knew his brother was not ordinary at all but _who knew whether love was a miracle or a curse_ and what it had done to him in quiet corners of his Mind Palace that even he was not aware of.

_You can erase them from your mind, but getting them out of your heart is another story._

He sighed.

There may still be some triggers, some leaks, some unexpected flashbacks, but on the whole, it was probably safe for his brother to go back now.

Fortunately Sherlock had managed to retain his Work memories.

.

.

Thus it was that when Sherlock returned to 221B three days later and surprised his baffled flatmate, he remembered everything about the Detective Inspector Lestrade. Every case, every single detail.

But he had deleted Greg.

And he didn’t even know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can erase them from your mind, but getting them out of your heart is another story. Quote from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. https://www.scoopwhoop.com/Eternal-Sunshine-Of-The-Spotless-Mind-Quotes/#.pd5rlqy71


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tries to cope the best he can. Sally is angry enough with Sherlock for the two of them.

Greg had watched Sherlock and the new man walk away from that crime scene, his mind reeling with confusion and despair.

He wanted to call out to Sherlock, to stop him.

 _But what would he say?_ What _could_ he say?

_And in any case would Sherlock listen to anything?_

He had looked at him with such detached annoyance that Greg wasn’t sure if anything could be more hurtful but he had the sense to recognize that yes, perhaps it could.

As long as he did not confront him, this was not officially over.

Maybe it was some deep undercover game Greg though with desperate hope.

Or maybe he just needed time, he needed space. He was unable to say it so Greg would be the understanding one.

He would give him what he wanted. He would wait.

He laughed to himself.

Of course he would wait.

He would wait forever if needed because how could there possibly space for anyone else in his life and his heart after he had shared it with Sherlock??

He went home, exhausted. There was too much emotional turmoil to allow him any sleep. He could not even get himself to lie down and spent the entire night sitting on the sofa, working through all the possible ways he could even initiate a rational discussion with Sherlock.

 _How long would this last?_ _And how would it affect their working relationship?_ _What would happen if things never got back to the way they were ?_

_What would he do then?_

.

.

Greg missed Sherlock every single day.

It was two months now but he still woke up looking forward to going to work and within seconds he would remember that what he actually looked forward to was gone. It felt like half of him was missing. It felt like a punch in the gut when he would turn to remark on something or smile at something odd or funny and find that he was looking at a stranger’s face or most often at nothing.

As the weeks passed, a sense of melancholy and guilt enveloped him that he could never quite shake off.

.

.

Meanwhile Sally was becoming more and more angry as she could see Greg hurting and Sherlock swanning in and out of their crime scenes with that new man. She had tried to warn him away but did anyone listen to her?!

 _How dare the Freak do this to Greg?_ _The best man she had ever been lucky to work with. He had had his back, mentored him, cared for him and this is how he was repaid. Fuck that._

_She was going to keep her eye on Sherlock and make sure he got what was due to him as soon as she got the chance._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things just keep spiralling out of control

In the coming days Greg wonders often how one can feel betrayed when you were never promised loyalty in the first place.

_How do you listen to the sound of heartbreak, every day, one piece at a time?_ _Even in the chaos and noise of a crime scene, it rings loud in my ears._

_How do you find the strength to cope with the hurt every time he forgets your name like he deleted it? Deleted you. Deleted those precious moments you had together._

_Maybe they were never precious to him._

_But you still love him. Even if you spend all your free time aching for his presence, trying to fill the hole he left in your heart, with books and alcohol._

_You take whatever you can get just to know he is alive and well and safe._

_._

_._

And then suddenly one day he isn’t.

.

.

A kidnapped child screams at the sight of Sherlock. That starts a slippery slope which eventually leads to the Chief Superintendent asking for Sherlock to be arrested. Sally is triumphant. _Freak had it coming._

She is extremely annoyed that Greg is still trying to protect him, defend him. “Can’t you see it boss?!“

The D.I is still trying. “With all due respect, sir ... “

The Chief Super thunders at him. “You’re a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go and fetch him in right now!”

Greg still hesitates _. Arrest Sherlock? How could it possibly have come to this??_

He stands up and leave the room. He looks at Sally and with deep sorrow in his eyes he asks her _“A_ re you proud of yourself?”

Sally retorts “Well, what if it’s not just this case? What if he’s done this to us every single time?? How can you still trust him after the way he behaved with you?!”

And she grabs her coat from the coat stand as she goes past.

Greg stops for his own coat, and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration as he stands outside the Chief Super’s office trying to make a quick phone call which would probably result in him losing his job if he was found out.

He has never quite warmed to John Watson but he has had to maintain a friendly front because it seemed that he and Sherlock were joined at the hip and well, that was that. He could hardly call Sherlock directly so he called John now and warned him that they are coming to arrest Sherlock.

.

.

When they reached 221B Mrs Hudson was also upstairs.

Greg greeted her as John tried to block his way. “Have you got a warrant? Have you?”

Greg was irritated. “Leave it, John.” And he stood in front of Sherlock while one of two armed officers attached handcuffs to his left wrist. “Sherlock Holmes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.”

The officer marched Sherlock out of the door. Mrs Hudson stood there in tears.

John said to Greg in outrage “You know you don’t have to do ...”

But that just made Greg very, very angry. He stepped close to John and points at him sternly _“_ Don’t try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too.”

Then he turned and left the room but as he was waiting downstairs suddenly there is chaos.

John has been handcuffed for punching the Chief Super and Sherlock pulls a gun and holds John hostage and suddenly they are both fugitives.

_What the bloody HELL Sherlock!!_ Greg thought to himself.

The Chief Super is yelling “Get after him, Lestrade!”

.

.  
Greg glared furiously at Sally as she began to head in the direction the two men have gone. Greg was a lot slower in getting moving.

He saw Sherlock hold out his hand to John, who took it and they ran.

Greg just watched as Sherlock seemed to disappear from his life once again.


	10. Chapter 10

It was clear that the threat posed by Jim Moriarty needed to be taken more seriously than they had imagined.

Mycroft has been in discussion with Sherlock. Thirteen contingencies have been planned for. Some of them were likely to require Sherlock to fake his death and go into hiding for a long time. Possibly not ever return if the dangers facing him later become too great.

Possibly not ever return if…….

Mycroft is well aware of this and has never had his mask as the Ice Man threatened the way it has been currently, by the very real possibility of losing his little brother.

Sherlock has, on the other hand, been almost gleeful and delighted as though this were not a real life deadly game but perhaps an escape room game. This trumps every childhood dream of being a pirate and adventurer and it worries Mycroft.

So, as always, Mycroft must be the one to stay in control and tie up loose ends to the best extent they can.

“Sherlock? You know that Lestrade called John to warn you and delayed arresting you and delayed going after you when you ran. I think you owe it to him to let him know what we are planning. After all Molly does know already. I understand that John needs to be convincingly mourning, but maybe we can tell the Detective Inspector.”

“No.” Sherlock said sharply. “Lestrade cannot know.”

_Something in his Mind Palace was sneaking out of a closed door. He could see a warm glow emerging from the gap below. The thoughts trail along ‘He will keep you safe’. ‘He will have your back’. Who is the ‘he’? Lestrade? That doesn’t make sense……why would he do that…_

When he saw Mycroft’s expression he scowled. “I can’t tell him because he will never let me go through with it. He has these noble intentions and he may try to stop me or somehow try to protect me. And you know that the endgame is not my safety but it is to stop Moriarty.”

Sherlock was silent for a beat. Then he said “He does not deserve to be given a false hope that I may come back. He seems oddly attached to me and if I return then I think that may truly destroy him ----knowing that he could have stopped me.”

Mycroft only nodded but his heart was heavy.

_Oh brother mine, you have truly become the good man Lestrade wanted you to be. Pity that your lives have always been so out of step._

_._

_._

A few days later, Sally hesitated outside Greg’s door.

“Sir? There has been a suicide at St. Bart’s….”

“Not our division Sally” he said, not even looking up from his file.

When there was no response from Sally he looked up and saw her face.

What he saw there made him feel like a black hole was opening up under his feet and he was being sucked into it, slowly but irrevocably.

_Sherlock_ he tried to say but he couldn’t get any sound out.

She heard him anyway and nodded.

Greg felt as though the entire planet had tilted for a moment. Sounds were distorted and everything was blurred. His blood was ringing in his ears.

“Sir? Sir!!” He heard Sally calling him in a panic. Someone was shaking him.

“Stop it” he said, blinking. “Stop it! Take me to him.”

.

.

.

Later he sat at home, numb with shock, unable to even understand what had happened and if it was real. He did not attend the funeral and he did not visit the graveyard.

**_ It was all his fault!! _ **

He had just let Sherlock walk out on him and never even asked him why. He had not reached out, not tried to find out if Sherlock was in trouble. What if Sherlock had broken off their relationship just to keep him safe??

He had fucking NOT. EVEN. ASKED.

He had just accepted that and not trusted his love and then not only had he let him fight this madness alone, but he had even arrested him.

_ Was there a special place in hell for him? _

He hoped there was because there was no punishment great enough.

The skies were always grey now. Relentlessly grey. Overcast. There never seemed to be any sunshine. Never any sunshine now that he was gone.

“The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

.

.

.

He had often wondered if Sherlock and John had been something more than friends. The man was certainly grieving as though they may have been. But then one year had turned to two and one day he had seen him in the company of a woman. Seemed to be a charming blonde and he seemed enthralled by her.

_Good for you Dr Watson I suppose. Moving on._

As for him, the thudding of his pulse when he woke up every morning was just a reminder that his broken heart was still beating. There was the taking of a sudden deep breath as though he had forgotten how to breathe. And when he did, he wondered why he needed to.

His heartbreak was like the Stonehenge of his life, sitting there on display, unmoving and mysterious but essentially meaningless and probably without purpose, as people pass by in their cars and point it out to each other.

.

.

He sat alone in his office for hours and hours after everyone had left. Sally had tried to sit with him after the first week. Kind as ever even in his grief he had not been able to tell her to leave but the haunted look in his eyes had given her the message that she was not welcome there.

He had barely acknowledged the humiliation of being stripped of his rank and removed from field work. Anderson had not met his eyes in months.

For three months he came and did his work and left, a dead man walking.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest,  
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read my earlier fic Two of us Against the World then this chapter has some Franken-writing borrowed from that :)


	11. Chapter 11

Greg wandered through the streets and alleys of London in search of lost time.

He stood too long in front of a busker at Tottenham Court Road station who was playing a violin. He had never heard anyone play as beautifully as Sherlock but then those memories of the violin are not alone and in isolation. They are tangled up inseparably from the knowledge that it was Sherlock playing. They were his fingers on the bow and string, his hands holding the instrument, his lips parted in a small smile, his eyes closed inside the sanctuary of notes. The incandescent light coming in from the window where he stood, as the faint smell of seeping tea wafted from the kitchen. A far away rumbling of cars on the street. The sound of Mrs Hudson vacuuming.

They were all tied up in a bundle as one cohesive memory. He could not pull out one strand without unravelling the entire lot.

He suddenly felt stiff from standing for so long, came to with a start, slipped a few coins in the empty violin case for the busker and slowly walked to the platform.

.

.

Yesterday he had gone to the alley where they had been for their last stakeout.

Before John. Before the Bart’s incident.

At the time of course he had no idea it would be the last stakeout. That he could stand so close to Sherlock, almost trapped by his body behind that damp wall as they waited for a suspect to emerge. He stood now and looked at the wall. The innocuous, still damp, utterly meaningless wall. Except that Greg could see clear as day two men standing there, close enough to feel each other’s body warmth. Looking at each other with half a smile, just inches separating their lips, filled with that curious amalgam of joy and adrenaline at the potential danger and the thrill of seeing justice done. He could smell the faint tobacco, shampoo, detergent and sweat.

He went closer and touched the wall, as though by doing so he could reach back in time and touch the younger man, hold him closer, maybe even kiss him while he could.

Before everything was lost and there were no more chances left.

.

.

He stood near the lane where they had escaped from a chase once and Sherlock had turned to him and said “Here, take my hand.”

He did take his hand then but he should have never allowed him to let it go.

He could still feel the warmth of that phantom hand in his as they ran down the lane, and the tug of Sherlock’s arms and the strength of his grip.

But now when looked down at it the emptiness of his own hand it seemed like too heavy a burden to carry.

.

.

He should have asked him why. He should have argued and begged and stayed with him.

He should have been brave enough to tell him how much he loved him.

Because it was true.

It was the one great truth of his entire life.

.

.

But he had thought they had all the time in the world.

Until suddenly they had none.

He did not even have the opportunity to try and save him as he fell. No. That dubious honor had gone to John Watson.

Sherlock had not even called him or left a message.

.

.

And now all he could do was search endlessly for lost time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe is rarely so lazy....

And then one day he needed to go to Bart’s for following up on some paperwork. He was reluctant but he didn’t have a choice really. He met Molly. Initially he was awkward with her but then he remembered that she and Sherlock had been friends. So he talked. Once he started he couldn’t stop. There was no one else he could talk to anyway.

He knew exactly how Sherlock had helped with the cases. _How could anyone believe these lies?_

He had sat there holding his head in his hands, frustration and anger radiating from every pore.

Molly had listened to him patiently and with sympathy. She was more than a little terrified that he would somehow figure out her role in the Fall. After all he had proved again and again that he truly had been Scotland Yard’s finest. But fortunately for her he was too wrapped up in his own misery.

She had finally said “Greg if you want to do right by him, if you want justice, well…. you do still have access to all the files. Find the evidence. Maybe all they need is proof.”

And so he had spent the next one year doing exactly that. It had given him a purpose. _Perhaps there was some redemption possible for him after all._

It was difficult since this was not his official assignment but he worked like a man possessed.

And slowly his old team regrouped around him, in solidarity. They had known this man their entire career and they had trusted his instincts and they had put their faith in him. He had mentored them and he had had their back and slowly people remembered again. Slowly his task became easier as old friends went just that _little bit_ out of their way to get him the papers he needed, copies of lab results, cross checking of alibis, scans of photos appearing in his email from unknown random IDs.

.

.

Mycroft watched all this with growing admiration and sorrow as the former D.I seemed to be on a one man mission to clear Sherlock’s name. He hardly went home, he hardly went out, he hardly met with people socially.

Mycroft wondered if there was any parallel universe or other lives……..and if there were, he sure hoped that there would be two Gregory Lestrades in them because he might want one of them for himself too.

_Someone to watch over me….……._

What a treasure this man was, with his heart of gold and his hair of silver and Mycroft may have heaved a deep sigh……. _Oh Sherlock. I hope you can do right by him when you return._

_._

_._

And then one day, two years after the Fall, the first poster appeared.

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES

Greg saw it on his way to the Yard as he turned the corner from the Tube station. He stood there, hands deep in his coat pockets, freezing in the cold wind, looking at it and for the first time since Sherlock had gone, he felt a tear roll down his cheek.

That evening after work he visited Sherlock’ grave for the first time. It was as though he had felt he did not deserve to mourn this man he had loved and betrayed and led to his death. But now he could at least beg for forgiveness, having finally done right by him.

He looked at the name on the headstone and at that moment all he wanted to do was to be buried, _right now if possible_ , under there with the man he had loved.

It had finally taken him an hour to find the strength to walk away from it.

.

.

That same week Anderson had had the courage to speak to him and share his theories. Greg felt sorry for the man. But none of this penance or this repentance was going to bring Sherlock back. Greg truly felt un- anchored in this world. Listening to Anderson’s conspiracy theories had somehow made it even more crystal clear that this was over.

Sherlock was redeemed but gone.

.

.

He looked at himself in the mirror the next day and stared at his grey hair.

He picked up the nicotine patch box as usual and suddenly was filled with an insane and irrational rage. He had done everything right. He had saved him, mentored him, loved him, protected him, tried to stay faithful, and what had got him???

_This???_

_Standing here alone, in a small cold flat, looking at a box of nicotine patches that reminded him of the one true love of his life._ Not that he needed anything to remind him _. They said ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’._

_What kind of shit person made that up??_

_Had they ever fucking REALLY lost what they had loved??_

He threw the box of patches against the wall. And just for good measure threw his empty tea cup against the other wall. The sound of that shattering gave him a fleeting moment of peace.

_Fuck this universe. Fuck doing the right thing._

He marched out and bought a packet of cigarettes. And just to show the universe how much it could go fuck itself, he refused the low tar filtered ones and asked the disinterested woman behind the counter for ‘the ones that would kill him faster’.

He went to get his car and decided to light up there and then, in the parking lot.

He put a cigarette in his mouth, cupped his hands around it and started to light it when suddenly he heard a voice.

“Those things will kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all safe and well and coping with the pandemic!! Sorry for the long delay in updating but life is upside down and inside out at present!! Hope you are still enjoying this story ! Do drop in a line if you are :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on and so does the loneliness

Greg couldn’t believe that the universe had conspired to give him this.

Sherlock back from the dead.

He had hugged him like his life depended on it. _Which it did really_.

And then the bastard had called him ‘Graham’ and walked away.

_It’s fine. He could live with that_. He grinned fit to break his face in two. _YES he could live with that!!_

He should have known that the madman would have pulled off some such IDIOTIC trick. Him and that brother of his. Hell. He didn’t care what tricks they played.

Sherlock was alive.

That is all that mattered!

.

.

It was hard watching him continue to have eyes only for John and to behave as though Greg was a distant acquaintance. But it was fine _. It was all fine._

In his absence, Greg’s old team had been trying out Sherlock’s methods of deduction and doing quite well thank you. Greg had been reinstated and had his team back. Sally was promoted but still working with him. They had been pumped up about arresting the Walker brothers for their bank robberies and just as they were going to make the final arrest, Greg’s phone chirruped. Twice.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the message.

HELP.

BAKER ST.

HELP ME NOW.

PLEASE.

SH

“It’s him isn’t it?” asked Sally, disbelieving at the audacity of the man to do this to Greg and appalled at Greg for letting him do it.

Because it was inevitable really wasn’t it? In which universe would Sherlock send a message saying ‘help’ and Greg wouldn’t respond with the full cavalry?

.

.

A few minutes later he stood in 221B watching Sherlock hold up a book on Speeches for the Best Man, even as the rotary blades of the chopper chugged outside the window.

Greg didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

.

.

He met Molly for drinks later that day.

“Greg,” she asked hesitantly. “Did you know that Moriarty had snipers trained on people whom Sherlock would die to protect?”

“Yes. I heard he was threatening to kill John.”

Molly looked at him and said softly, “And Mrs. Hudson. And you.”

“What?!” Greg was stunned. And suddenly angry. “What are you saying Molly?”

“It’s true Greg. You were one of the three he had threatened to kill.”

Greg had had no idea. He was furious. “Sherlock had no right to choose my life over his. Why didn’t Moriarty threaten to kill you Molly?”

And so Molly had haltingly explained the entire deception and her role in it. Greg had sat there and listened with shock turning to disbelief and then to rage.

Molly had shrunk back at his expression and he had explained hastily, “I don’t blame you Molly. You did what he wanted you to. I may have done the same if I was in your place.”

NO he thought to himself. _NO I BLOODY WELL WOULDN’T HAVE. I would NEVER have let him go off alone to bring down an entire bloody criminal syndicate. I would have moved heaven and earth. I would have had his back. Two of us against the world._

And he slammed his fist against the table.

Molly almost jumped out of her skin.

“Sorry Molly. I am sorry” he apologized. “I just…I can’t. He did this to protect the three of us? Including me? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t blame you Molly. Not at all. I am angry with him. Maybe his brother. Not you.”

“I understand Greg,” Molly said. And she really did.

.

.

Greg felt like he was falling down the rabbit hole. So many insane things happen over the next few months that he was left reeling.

Sherlock made a wonderful speech as Best Man at John’s wedding to Mary. He said he never expected to be anyone’s best friend. And then he stumbled over his words.

_(The Mind Palace has been giving trouble of late. Some padlocks are failing and some doors have been sliding open. Memories and feelings are seeping out. Tendrils are growing down the passages and blocking the diversions paths. He never expected to be anyone’s best friend. That was true. But he had been more than that to someone. I have had something even better than a best friend…..he remembers somewhere. It was closer. It was stronger. It was deeper. It was safer. It was my sanctuary. Why can’t I remember it? It’s just outside my grasp.)_

He stumbled in his speech. He looked into the distance and saw Molly and Lestrade sitting together. He blinked.

Greg and Molly looked at each other and look down.

.

.

The wedding was followed by Sherlock being shot and barely surviving.

Greg had nightmares for months after that. He had wanted to demand a meeting with the brother in the British Government and ask him what the hell he was up to if he couldn’t keep Sherlock safe?! But he would have been given a cold look and a thin smile because, after all, who was he to ask such questions? He was just a D.I who occasionally consulted Sherlock for his cases.

Then had come Christmas, which Greg spent at his mother’s home, watching re-runs of her favourite TV shows and eating her delicious apple pie.

Then the Watson baby arrived and Sherlock seemed to dote on her.

And then one day, shockingly, Mary threw herself in front of a bullet to save Sherlock.

_If it hadn’t been Mary I would have done it_ thought Greg.

One day when he was feeling more lonely than usual, he visited her grave and put flowers on it.

.

.

Mycroft had been reviewing the level 1 and 2 surveillance tapes for Sherlock and John & Mary and saw a fleeting glimpse of Greg at Mary’s grave.

_What was that all about?_ But even as he asked the question he knew the answer. _He was thanking her for saving Sherlock’s life_.

_Oh brother mine! We really need to talk_.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg saves Sherlock...again

Some weeks later, Greg was called in when Sherlock was admitted to a hospital. He had been on drugs and apparently hallucinating. He had then attacked Culverton Smith with a scalpel.

Greg was interviewing John Watson in the police interview room.

_“_ Did you know?”

  
John said vehemently,” Of _course_ I didn’t.”  
 _“_ You didn’t see him take the scalpel?”  
 _“Nobody_ saw him.”  
“So you didn’t know what was about to happen.”  
“Of _course_ I didn’t know.”

_Greg sat back in his chair with a tired sigh. “_ I keep wondering if we should have seen it coming”.

Molly kept the phone down and bit her lip. This made no sense.

_John?? How could he do this? And to Sherlock?? The man who had ‘died’ to save his life? Who had sacrificed so much at every step just to keep John safe and happy?_

She didn’t know what to do with this information. But somehow Sherlock needed to be protected. She herself had examined him just the earlier day and seen him almost on the brink of death with his drug use. It had been bad enough when she had helped him fake his death but there was simply no way that she could sit by and watch him _actually_ die.

She picked up her phone again and sent a text. {Can we talk?}

When there was no reply for five minutes she texted again. {It’s about Sherlock.}

The phone rang almost immediately.

“Sorry Molly I was a bit tied up so I couldn’t answer your first text. I…”

“It’s ok Greg. I only sent the second message because it may be urgent. I don’t know any more really. But I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What has happened Molly?” Greg asked, fully alert but after the whole best man speech fiasco he was a little wary about over reacting to the drama in Sherlock Holmes’ life.

“Can we meet somewhere?”

Greg looked at the wall clock. _Two hours till the workday ended._ “Can it wait till 6 pm?”

“I don’t know Greg.”

‘Ok’, he decided.’ I am coming over to Bart’s. 15 minutes. Wait for me’.

As promised he was there and when she saw him push through the double doors, worried but so commanding, she knew she had made the right decision.

She told him, softly but rapidly what she had heard from a friend who worked at the morgue in Culverton Smith’s hospital. She saw Greg’s face show despair when she told him about the way Sherlock had pushed himself to the brink of a breakdown with the drugs, and finally dark with rage when she told him the final piece of news.

“John did WHAT??!” He had growled. “I just had that man in the police interview room and he never………”

“I don’t know Greg” Molly said, twisting her hands. She was also very agitated. “This is what I heard. I am not sure what is going on there but I thought you would be the right person to help.”

“You did the right thing Molly. I am going there right now.”

“Can I come with you?” She asked him.

“Ya sure, ride with me”.

He drove the car and parked and practically ran up the stairs.

They barged through the locked door, caught Culverton in the act of trying to smother Sherlock and after arresting him they set in motion the paperwork to have Sherlock transferred to Bart’s. Molly agreed to wait with him till the transfer took place.

Greg was unable to wait there any longer. He was seething with rage. He could hardly hear Molly speak because of the blood pounding in his ears.

“Greg, please. Please don’t do anything that will be come back to hurt you. Greg….” Molly bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

_What had happened to their world? Sherlock almost dying, John hitting him, kicking him, and now Greg on a rampage. Everyone was going to get hurt….._

Greg got into his car and drove like a madman till he reached the pub where John had been seen. He went in, spotted him almost immediately, went up to him and punched him with a right hook before John could even register who he was. He pulled out his badge and showed it to the pub owner who was about to come to break them up.

Greg was clenching his fist to stop himself from throwing another, hell another ten punches at this man. This man who had kicked Sherlock, till he BLED?! He had kicked the man who had died for him.

“With best friends like you who needs enemies?” Greg roared at him, punching the table. “Stay away from Sherlock if you know what’s good for you John. If I hear that you have been anywhere within a five kilometre radius I will bring a fucking restraining order and report you to the council for potential child endangerment so they can take Rosie away from her violent parent. Do you get that? DO YOU FUCKING GET THAT???”

And satisfied at the utterly terrified expression on the face of the ex- army doctor, he had turned and left and raced his car back to the Yard, still seething with rage and consumed by guilt.

_Oh Sherlock. This is all my fault. I should have been there with you. All these years……all this pain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these parts are similar to parts of other fics I have written about these two because they follow the plot of canon :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big brother comes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you lovely people! Sorry for the long delay but as we all know real life is a bit of a nightmare at present! But hope you are still around and reading and do drop in a line in comment to let me know :)

Mycroft had been away in Hong Kong for a high level trade agreement negotiation and also to oversee a secret intelligence op involving the South Sea. But his people were always aware of the movements of Sherlock and by extension John. He received a call from one of the informers who had been witness to the pub scene between Gregory Lestrade and John Watson. He listened and wondered what had driven the man with the patience and forbearance of a saint to do this to Sherlock’s best friend. Something was seriously wrong and he realized that it was time he took decisive action since his little brother was clearly not capable of even self- preservation at this point.

.

.

Meanwhile Greg would show up outside Sherlock’s room in the hospital every single morning before work, talk to the doctors about his progress, look through the glass door upon the man and then leave.

He never went in.

.

.

After five days when Sherlock was finally sent home, Mycroft came over and sat in the living room of 221B having politely accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock just sat there without any expression on his face. Impassive. Almost frozen.

Not looking at Mycroft.

After half an hour of silence, he finally spoke, still looking away and his first question to Mycroft was “Do you know what has happened to John?”

Mycroft looked at him gravely and said, “Brother mine, we need to talk.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to him. He had an entire spectrum of Mycroft’s tones catalogued in his Mind Palace. This was an interesting one. It was somewhere halfway between the warning note in ‘Do you want Mummy to find out?’ and the pleading desperation of ‘Promise me there will always be a list Sherlock!”

_Was this the first time in his entire life that he had heard this tone in Mycroft’s voice?_

Taking Sherlock’s silence as acquiescence Mycroft took a deep breath and spoke. “Alone does not protect us Sherlock. Greg has protected you from the day you met. He has done nothing but right by you. He will continue to protect you whether you like it or not. Whether you _want_ it or not. But I think it is time, brother mine, to return to a relationship that has been your salvation and that you have thrown away without any care. And maybe some other friendships have run the course and need to be let go of.”

Sherlock looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Greg?! Who is Greg??”

Mycroft looked back at him patiently. “Gregory Lestrade. Detective Inspector, New Scotland Yard.”

He gave Sherlock half a minute to assimilate this information with what he had just said earlier. Then he continued.

“Sherlock, I may not be one to indulge in it myself, but I have it on the highest authority that true love is unconditional. Think of who has been there for you at every stage…… no matter how you have behaved with him.” Then he smiled when Sherlock looked at him sharply. “Besides me brother mine.”

Sherlock looked agitated. _This did not sound like John. No. Not at all. He had flashes of remembering a patient loving kindness and it was definitely not John._

Mycroft reminded him gently. “Even without remembering what he was to you, you died for him once. Maybe now it is time to live for him. You know that he has put his job on the line for you time and time again, and you know that his work is his life. He would even put his life on the line for you if needed. Most crucially, he would rather cut off his hands than raise them on you…..” He paused and then continued in an icy cold tone. “Unlike some others.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged. He slithered down from his chair and sat on the floor, hugging his knees. “Mycie, I haven’t been honest with you.” He whispered.

Mycroft looked at him, his usual expression of worry combined with something else that Sherlock had never noticed before. It was a look of such tenderness that he had to choke back a sob. How blind he had been to those who truly loved him and how mistaken he had been in who he gave his heart to.

Mycroft tipped his head at him, encouraging him to speak.

“I have been having these odd feelings. A sort of craving. A longing. A memory of something better, something stronger that I had. These are very fleeting but I noticed that these happen more often when I am with Lestrade. I want to be around him but it is confusing because I don’t understand why. And he just looks at me like …..I don’t know. Like he …like he knows something….. and is waiting for me to remember it…..” Sherlock struggled to explain what he saw in the D.I’s eyes. _Something sad and distant. Something a bit not good._

Mycroft moved to stand near his brother. He kept his umbrella leaning against the chair, opened the buttons on his jacket and sat down on the floor next to Sherlock. The sight of his dignified brother trying to squat down into that position made Sherlock smile and Mycroft gave him a twisted half smile back, glad for anything that brought a laugh to his little brother’s ravaged face.

“Sherlock, you wouldn’t remember but there is a reason for what you are feeling.”

He reminded him briefly of what had happened. He himself had no idea why Sherlock had done what he had and he told him so. But he said “These are the facts. You were with Gregory. For a very long time. Relatively speaking of course. You were together. You were happy. Very happy. And then one day……you just cut him off and injected yourself and called me. Looks like you either restructured or locked up memories in your Mind Palace.”

Sherlock sat and stared into nothingness for a very long time. Some faint memroies had stirred after what Mycroft told him.

A sense of panic, dread, frustration. The way his reptile brain had lit up and flashed *danger* and told him that there was no way he could make any commitments and be tangled in emotional relationships. That was not his way. It had been fun while it lasted but now it was over. He needed it to be over. The only constant in his life was The Work.

He could recall with absolute clarity the expressions on Lestrade’s face from the day he returned till the day he turned up with the helicopter and the odd glance exchanged between him and Molly during the Best Man’s speech at John’s wedding.

But try as he might, he could not recall anything from Before. He gritted his teeth and turned to Mycroft, loathe to be even more vulnerable but Mycroft was already nodding at him. Despite him reminding his little brother about how powerful emotions can be, Sherlock had never learnt to really control them. He still feared them, was overwhelmed by them, and then just as Mycroft was beginning to hope that the D.I would bring stability in his whirlwind brother’s life, this had happened. But he would help him. Of course he would help him.

“I can try and help you Sherlock. I am not sure how well it will work because I don’t really know what you have done. But they say _You can erase them from your mind, but getting them out of your heart is another story.”_

_._

_._

So Mycroft texted Anthea to clear his diary, send them some takeaway, hung his jacket carefully over the chair, undid his cuffs with elaborate care and rolled up his sleeves. It was time to re-boot the hidden memories in Sherlock’s Mind Palace.

He was not sure how long it would take but it turned out that remembering the love was much, _oh so much_ easier than the forgetting.

At the smallest of prompts and reminders the memories burst forth and by the evening, when the sun was setting, Sherlock had remembered everything.

Greg. His Greg. 

And with that came the new perspective on the memories of the past 4 years where Greg had seen him with John, living with him, working with him and had kept his distance. But he had always had his back. The only one whose first reaction on seeing him after his return from the Fall back had been a crushing hug. A welcome back with no questions asked, no demands made, no judgement.

Just un-conditional love.

That look he had given him during John’s wedding, the fact that he had come alone, the expression of despair, the hesitation, the meaning of that glance exchanged between him and Molly.

It was all suddenly so clear.

He felt overwhelmed with guilt at the realization that what he had done to protect himself from heartbreak had in fact caused so much heartbreak for the man who had loved him and saved him, again and again.

When he had calmed down somewhat Mycroft also told him how Greg had worked alone and against all odds on proving Sherlock’s contribution to the solving of their cases. How he had not visited his grave even once till the day the first poster appeared showing the public move towards believing in the detective.

Mycroft sat with him later that night, urging him to eat, sitting with him when he slept from the exhaustion of these revelations, more gentle in his words than Sherlock ever remembered him being since their childhood when he had doted on his younger brother. _How could he ever thank him?_ He too had had his back for forever and Sherlock had never appreciated it. He vowed to do better in the future.

They had all suffered too much already and while some of it may have been necessary, it was now time to say enough.

It was time to stop running away and time to start running towards.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is navigating a new route for running towards safety.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he remembered that it was an important day and it took him a few seconds to remember why.

Mycroft seemed to have stayed the night but he had obviously left after making the morning tea. There was also a plate of cookies from Mrs. Hudson.

_Another person he needed to be kinder to in the future._ He sighed. _The heart was a difficult thing to maintain. No wonder Mycroft always said caring is not an advantage. Of course, he should have added that the troubles are worth it anyway!_

Sherlock spent the day pacing around his flat, nervously trying to decide what he was going to say to Greg. _Would Greg even allow him to speak or offer an explanation? He couldn’t really blame him if he just told him to get lost. What would he do if that happened??_

_Could he handle the heartbreak?_

_If it came to that he would. He had to._

_But he would not give up on Greg. Nor would he let Greg give up on him._

_Not now._

_Not ever._

_._

_._

_What would he say to Greg?_

_What possible explanation could he offer?_

_Maybe he should just fall on his knees and beg forgiveness._

_Should he go to meet him at the Yard where there was less likely to be a scene?_

With a sharp panic he realized he didn’t even know if Greg was still single and un-attached. He almost dialled Mycroft to ask but he realized that if it were so Mycroft would have already told him.

With trembling hands he put the phone back.

_So Greg must still be single._

_Four years. Four long years._

_Surely that was a good sign?.........Maybe better to go to Greg’s flat?_

As he remembered the flat he was overwhelmed with memories of being there. Of happy days with Greg puttering around, preparing meals, listening to Sherlock play the violin, holding him in bed, kissing, making love.

_How could he not have known that all this time? All that love! How had he locked it away? And how the hell had Greg managed to hide it from his eyes?_

Sherlock knew how of course. With Herculean effort. Because Greg would want to spare Sherlock the guilt. Because Greg would want Sherlock to be happy and if separating from him was what Sherlock had decided would make him happy, then that is what he would accept.

_Why didn’t you fight for me Greg?!!_ Sherlock wanted to ask him. He wanted to shake him. _Why didn’t you even ask me why I did what I did?!! Why didn’t you ask me even ONCE?!! Why did you just accept whatever I did??!_

.

.

So in that stormy mood Sherlock set off and halfway to the flat decided he could not bear to enter that flat alone. The flat that was once as much his space to be in as Greg’s. Now, until he knew if it could again be so, he did not have the courage to go there alone.

He changed his route and walked to the Yard instead.

At least that way he could pretend it was for an update on a case.

He had a moment of awareness of his past self---- going up in smoke inside of him. The one who had treasured his gypsy life. The one who didn’t want to be tied down. Who thought he needed to be so quick and nimble and ready to move that he needed to be alone. The one who was convinced he had purpose. Who was married to The Work. The one who had panicked and tried to escape the relationship, in much the same way as a wild animal in a trap gnaws its own leg off.

Sherlock said a quick farewell to that self. He would never be wanting him back.

.

.

Before he knew it he was standing outside the Yard. He took a deep breath.

““Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”” he muttered to himself as he went up two steps at a time, wishing at the same time to be and not to be. That was the real question. He wanted this moment of confrontation to be over and done with and already be in the happily ever after. Hopefully.

But sadly, that is not how life works.

.

.

_“It was a dark and stormy night when he found himself on a vast desolate plain, stunned at the sight, his cloak twirling uselessly around him as he tried to understand what he was seeing.”_

Well, that is what it would have said if this were a historical romance.

As it was, the sun was out, feeble and not warm, which is what one would expect from the sun during October in London. Yes, Sherlock’s coat did twirl in his wake as he rushed into the Yard, up the stairs two at a time as usual. He had dashed through the double doors and crossed Sally’s desk in a rush only to find Greg’s room empty.

A vast desolate plain.

Stunned at the sight he spun around and found Sally standing there, hands crossed, looking at him with the usual mixture of disdain, annoyance and mockery she reserved specially for him.

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked sharply, his nerves making him edgier than usual with her. This was one scenario he had not anticipated. “I was expecting a call about the missing opera singer hours ago.” He bluffed based on the headlines he had read in yesterday’s papers.

“Ah yes, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings” said Sally managing with her tone to mock all the upper class toffs, all the elite arts and Sherlock, all in one breath. She probably added _Freak_ , under her breath since Greg had made it extremely clear that he would not tolerate hearing it aloud one more time.

Something in Sherlock’s demeanour made her narrow her eyes.

“He is in the hospital.” She told him.

“For the case?” Sherlock asked, puzzled, since it was a missing person, not an attempted murder case. Not yet.

“Yeah, for a case.” Sally said in a strange tone. “His case.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock frowned, still disoriented by the sight of Greg’s empty room and annoyed at having to interrogate Sally who was being more obtuse than usual.

“He was admitted Sherlock.” She finally said. “He ….he isn’t well.”

“What?” Sherlock’s face twisted in a way that would have been funny if it wasn’t so painful. “He is ill enough to be admitted?? And I didn’t know??”

Sally raised one eyebrow at that. She had suspected something years ago but in the last four years she had been convinced it was her overactive imagination. As if someone as sensible as Greg and someone as insane as the Freak……but then why did Sherlock expect to be told if Greg was ill? Was it just for the sake of the case?

She decided to twist the knife in a bit more. “I guess they informed his next- of- kin? And he got someone to message me since I need to step in for him at work while he is away.”

Sherlock paled so rapidly and clutched the chair back in a way that made a relent a little.

“It was sudden but they said he is stable now.” She informed him.

But Sherlock had stopped listening long ago.

_Next- of- KIN? Greg had someone who was next- of- kin?? _

_And it was not him?_

_Of course it was not him._

_Why would it be??_

_Greg had others around him. A family, a next of kin. And of course he had Sally and his team at work._

_Where was Sherlock in this crowd?_

He swayed as he confronted the fact that it could have been him. It would have been him. If he wasn’t in Greg’s inner circle, it was all his own doing. Greg had opened his heart and home to him years ago.

It was only Sherlock’s feral dark self that had held them back from being more.

_Held them back from being more._

_Being more permanent. Being more official. Simply being more together._

.

.

‘Where is he?’ He finally managed to ask Sally, his voice hoarse with fear.

‘At UCH. He was at Camden when he felt unwell, so they took him to the nearest one’.

Sherlock was out of the Yard before her sentence was complete.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock reached the hospital in a whirlwind hurry……but did not dare go inside. He wanted to rush in and find the man and tell him how he felt but something held him back.

Maybe fear. Maybe prudence.

Maybe he really had become older and wiser in the last four years.

He could hear Mycroft in his Mind Palace as always but this time far kinder than he used to imagine him. Perhaps fond even.

_Patience little brother._ Mycroft was saying. _You need to earn this back._

_._

_._

But by late evening he had no patience left anymore and he managed to wangle his way in and be at Greg’s bedside once he was sure he was asleep.

He sat by the bedside for a few minutes and just looked at Greg lying there, tired and pale. Older. So much older than he remembered him. It was as though he had just not looked at him properly during these past four years. But he was here. He was alive. And that was enough for now.

_He is the warrior who has never tried to tame me. He has stood by me as I fought my dragons. He has seen me sprout black wings and instead of fearing me and trying to cut them off he has waited in the shadows till I flew back into the light._

_This man has been my sanctuary. For as long as I can remember. Solid as a wall. Steady as a rock. Never making any demands on me. Always nudging me to be a good man. Caring for me. Keeping me safe. Never expecting anything in return._

_Not even my love. Not even any explanation._

The enormity of such a love that is so unconditional and so everlasting just came crashing down on him and for the first time decades he found himself weeping in silence.

_._

_._

He slipped away after a couple of hours but he was back again tonight.

He sat vigil once more and watched him breathe. Gently, very very softly and slowly he reached out and held Greg’s hand that was lying by his side, with all kinds of needles and plasters attached to it. He wove his fingers in between and gave the smallest squeeze. They fit so perfectly and it felt so right. He could feel the warmth bleeding into his own palm. He could feel a pulse thrill against his skin.

He wanted to never let go but all good things must come to an end and eventually he had to slip away and go back home.

.

.

The third night he held Greg’s hand again but it wasn’t enough. Something had been rising inside him like a dark tsunami and all the terror at finding out that Greg was in hospital and the relief at seeing him breathe, all the uncertainty of what was going to happen next……it was all too much to repress any more.

If he could never have this later then he wanted to have it now. At least this once.

He had had it in the Before. But he wanted it once, just once in the Now.

He knows this is wrong. He knows this is something John would have been angry about.

_Consent Sherlock! Bit Not Good to kiss people who are not conscious!_

But John is no longer the keeper of his morals and he can’t help himself.

He needs this and so he leans over and places the most gentle of kisses on the lips of this man who has never denied him anything yet. It is more worshipful than sexual and it feels so right and so good and inside him something unfurls like a promise.

Greg’s eyelids flutter a little when Sherlock pulls away and Sherlock looks down at him.

_This is the face he wants to wake up to every day for the rest of his life._

_If Greg will allow him to._

_._

_._

On the fourth day when Greg woke up he was alone.

But the bedside table was full. The nurse smiled and showed him the notes. There were flowers from Mycroft, cake from Mrs Hudson, a book from Molly and a fancy bottle of some non- alcoholic drink from John.

_There was nothing from Sherlock. Of course there was nothing. Why would there be?! Except that he had this very odd sensation …..a memory …..of holding Sherlock’s hand. Clearly the side- effect of all the meds._

He laughed at himself for his foolishness. He made some small jokes and the nurse flirted with him happily as she readied him for leaving the hospital. He was still tired. So tired. But he was ready to go back home now.

He had a strange sense of déjà vu when he thought of home. He saw Sherlock in it. Lounging on the sofa reading a book. Sitting in the kitchen and drinking tea. Sleeping in his bed.

He shook his head. _This was madness. Sherlock had not even checked in on him at the hospital._

And Mycroft Holmes had sent flowers. _Mycroft!!_ Greg almost laughed at the absurdity of that.

.

.

Just then Sally stepped in, brisk and cheerful.

‘Good to see you awake Sir!” Sally paused and watched him smile weakly.

She remembered the phone call she had answered three nights ago from a most unexpected source with a suggestion to check in on the D.I. She remembered sneaking in, all ready to nab some criminal, only to find something even more dangerous by Lestrade’s bed. She is surprised she doesn’t have a shock of grey hair from the fright.

She gave Lestrade a half smile back. “Lots of get- well gifts I see.”

“Yes.” Greg said mildly, looking slightly overwhelmed now. “It’s …..”

“The Freak was here.” She said, interrupting his train of thought.

“Huh?” Greg looked back at her. 

“Every night. For the last three nights.”

“Whatever the hell for?!” Greg asked her, stunned and worried. “Was he also sick?”

Sally rolled her eyes. ‘Sir. Didn’t look sick to me as much as lovesick’.

Greg was so startled he just gaped at her. When he finally gathered his wits he said, “Watch it Donovan.”

Sally shrugged. She gave him a cheesy grin. “Maybe ‘besotted’ is a better word Sir? Truly madly deeply?”

“Stop it Sally. I mean it. This isn’t funny.”

‘No, no. I am sure it isn’t.” Sally replied cheekily. “It’s terrifying. The Freak in love. Could make a top grossing horror film Sir!! Second only to Frankenstein’s monster.” and she gave a mock shudder and left the room in a hurry.

Greg was utterly confused and puzzled by her comments. No one else had ever know. The way Sherlock behaved with him on crime scenes was just as rude and annoying as before. They were both intensely private people and had seen no reason to share the information. Once John had entered the scene there had been much speculation about these two but then why would Sally say what she did? She didn’t have that kind of sense of humour. Maybe she was so biased against Sherlock, she was bound to mis- interpret anything he did.

_Still….three nights in a row by his hospital bed…..it was not like him at all. So maybe the hand holding had not been a dream after all…..….no. No way. Sally was just pulling his leg._

While he was lost inside his own mind, the nurse had finished putting away all the medicines and papers and was now reeling off a bunch of information about follow up and medications. Then she stopped for breath, flipped some papers on the main chart and asked “Isn’t your partner coming to take you home?”

“Partner?” Greg asked in confusion. “Oh no…. Sally is from work. She went back to the Yard.”

“I didn’t mean her. I meant him. Your next- of- kin.”

Now Greg was even more confused.

_What was going on? Had he suffered some brain damage? No one was making any sense. He couldn’t even remember who his next- of- kin was since the divorce._

_Did he even have a next- of- kin really?!_

_S_ omething small and heavy sat in his heart at that thought.

The nurse flipped through some more papers and said “Sherlock Holmes. That’s the one. He registered himself as your next- of- kin the evening you were brought in.”

“Oh for god’s sake.” Greg cursed. “Probably his idea of a bloody joke. Never mind. I am taking myself home. Thank you!”

He signed himself out, changed into his clothes and took a taxi.

During the ride back he w _ondered if he had any food left in the fridge but figured that he could order a takeaway. Worst case he would ask someone to drop by with some essentials. Maybe Sally._

He remembered again what she had said about Sherlock and felt his brain go fuzzy around the edges. He would think about all that later.

He walked up the stairs to his flat slowly, slightly out of breath by the time he reached the door. He stopped to fish out his keys and when he tried to fit them in he realized that the door was ajar.

He pushed it open slowly, suspiciously and saw that the room was full of flowers and lights.

And people.

For some reason the room was full of people!

He saw Molly, Mrs Hudson, Molly’s new boyfriend, Sally……. They all called out some kind of welcome greetings and Anderson got up to make place for him on the sofa. Greg looked dazed and managed a smile at the shock, a very pleasant shock of this welcome home.

Sally saw that his eyes were searching for someone within that crowd and she said softly “Sherlock is here. He is in the kitchen getting things ready.”

On cue Sherlock came out with a cake with Welcome Home written on it, and there was food from Angelo’s and many bottles of wine.

“Well if that’s what it takes to bring all of you here maybe I should throw myself in the path of a bullet the next time!” Greg said jokingly and everyone laughed. But a glance at Sherlock showed him that this had upset the young man, who abruptly got up and went out of the living room and into the kitchen.

“Need a smoke.” Sherlock said to stop anyone from following as he flung open a window there rather noisily.

The others carried on for a while but Sherlock never came back in and it was obvious that Greg’s mind was not with them anymore. They said their goodbyes and Molly and Mrs. Hudson gave him hugs and finally everyone left.

.

.

Greg hesitated as he closed the door behind the last person and looked towards the kitchen.

_What was Sherlock thinking? What was going on with him?_

He took a deep breath and went into his kitchen. To find Sherlock putting things away.

He lifted his eyebrows in stunned surprise. He remembered many squabbles ( mostly good- natured ones) about Sherlock’s complete lack of contribution to anything domestic. He was still ruminating over the information Sally had given him and his own sense memory of holding Sherlock’s hand while in the hospital.

But he didn’t want to ruin anything by making assumptions that could scare Sherlock off. He still had no clue what had happened the first time around and he wondered if he could possibly be lucky enough for there to be a second time…..so he gave Sherlock a lop sided grin and said “Hey who are you and what have you done to my Sherlock ??”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and glanced at him before he turned a fine shade of pink and looked away, his entire body language radiating high levels of stress.

“Hey Sherlock?” Greg said, softer now, coming in a step closer. “Thank you for planning this welcome home. It was such a thoughtful gesture. It means a lot to me.”

When there was no reply, he hesitated but moved one more step closer. Just as he was about to speak Sherlock turned and looked at him. Greg saw his eyes were shining and his jaw was clenched. 

“Hey, Sunshine, what happened?” He kicked himself mentally the next instant for letting that old terms of endearment slip out.

“It’s not enough.” Sherlock said, his voice rough and hoarse with choked back emotions. 

“What? What’s not enough?” Greg asked, rather confused now.

“This. Everything. You have no idea. It’s too less. It’s nothing. I can’t….. Please don’t…..”

Greg took a deep breath. He was tired now. So tired. But there was no way he could rest while Sherlock was in distress.

“What is it Sherlock?” He asked him as kindly as he could. “What is it? What can I do for you?”

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed sharply. “Don’t ask me that again. I don’t deserve it. But …please… don’t…...”

“Ok. Let’s have a cup of tea and then you can tell me what is going on.” Greg said and opened the cupboard. To find the shelf containing a small collection of Sherlock’s favourite ginger cookies and the special brand of coffee he liked. The way it used to be all those years ago.

He paused. He was really tired and not a genius at the best of times. But some clues were too obvious even for him to overlook. He could felt his heart rate speed up and he tried to stay very calm.

He closed the cupboard and turned to look at Sherlock.

“Actually, forget about the tea. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Sherlock looked at him with panic stricken eyes. He seemed frozen and unable to even speak.

“Sherlock?” Greg said putting his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Would you like to stay?”

Sherlock took a dee breath and asked. “Tonight?”

“I was going to say forever, if that works for you.” Greg said with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

.

.

Mycroft shut down the CCTV feed when he saw them go into the bedroom together.

Sometimes even a gypsy has to come home. And he had. In Greg’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the story !! There is a short epilogue which was posted as part of a different Sherstarde series I wrote but I thought it might fit in well here too :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue was posted as a fic in a Sherstrade series I wrote a while ago but I thought it fit in well here too. Hope you enjoy it :)

7.01 a.m. Morning Sunshine. GL

7.01 a.m. Yes O Master of stating the obvious. SH

7.02a.m. Hey, you have to be good to me today. It’s my wedding day :) GL

7.03 a.m. Don’t be tedious Gregory. SH

.

.

8.30 a.m. You getting there in time? GL

8.45a.m. I will be able to IF I do not have to respond to texts the entire morning. SH

8.45 a.m. Git. GL

.

.

10.10 a.m. On my way. GL

10.15 a.m. Sherlock? GL

10.30 a.m. Hey Sherlock? You ok? GL

10.40 a.m. Sherlock?? GL

10.41 a.m. Yes, Gregory. I am, as you put it, ‘ok’. However, my annoying brother is here to ‘help me 

get dressed’ apparently. Can you remind him that I am not 7 anymore? SH

10.42 a.m. Awww! That’s adorable! GL

10.45 a.m. This is Mycroft. Sherlock is refusing to touch his phone now since you said a ‘bad word’.

See you soon. MH

.

.

11.30 a.m. So this is it Sherlock. The end of an era :) GL

11.31 a.m. Is everyone going to be so tedious all day today? My head is already hurting. SH

11.32 a.m. Hey Sunshine, are you sure you want to go through with it? We can call it off even now if ……you know, if you don’t want to? GL

11.33 a.m. I am not going to dignify that with an answer. SH

11.34 a.m. Will both of you stop texting each other and please approach the altar NOW for fuck’s sake?! Sally

.

.

12.15 p.m. I love you my sweetheart husband. GLH

12.16 p.m. So sentimental…. but acceptable. At least today I suppose. SLH

12.17 p.m. Sherlock!! GLH

12.18 p.m. Yes, yes, Gregory Lestrade-Holmes, I love you too. To infinity and beyond. So can we 

PLEASE leave now before everyone starts with the hugging and the tears? SLH

.

.

3.00 p.m. Anthea is reaching the airport with the tickets that you forgot-- 

along with your house keys, what appears to be a crushed packet of Hobnobs

and possibly a metatarsal (I do not want to know why)---

when both of you removed your jackets in the priest’s room behind the altar after the ceremony

(and no I really do not want to know why).

Enjoy your honeymoon, brother mine.

Remember that we do not have an extradition treaty with Jamaica. MH

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PablFo3yaa4
> 
> "I never promised you a rose garden" is another way of saying "I never said it would be easy." The singer encourages her lover to enjoy the good times in their relationship because the bad times are inevitable ("Along with the sunshine there's gotta be a little rain sometime").


End file.
